Gloomy Sunday
by TehDono
Summary: ONESHOT  "Gloomy Sunday with a hundred white flowers, I was waiting for you, my dearest, with a prayer. A Sunday morning, chasing after my dreams, the carriage of my sorrow returned to me without you..."-Prussia/Hungary


**Disclaimer:** I do not own Axis Powers Hetalia or 'Gloomy Sunday'. They are the respective property of Himaruya Hidekazu, Rezső Seress, and László Jávor.

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_A/N: For characterization for Emil and Andrei, read my other one-shot '1952'. They are the personifications of Romania (Emil) and Bulgaria (Andrei). But this fic is separate, an alt. universe in nature._

Gloomy Sunday

There was a grey shroud over the moors. The light that filtered through was dark in the early autumn morning. A cold wind accompanied it, it's mournful melody moving the falling leaves of the massive oak in a sorrow filled arrangement. The very earth itself seemed to understand the nature of the events that had happened that Sunday morning and played its orchestra accordingly. Elizabeta stared at the wooden casket.

It was all just a dream—there was no way it could have been real. Emil and Andrei wouldn't have dared come to her doorstep to deliver such news. It just wouldn't happen. Though they stood on the opposite side of the chest, that anguished and tearful look not fallen off their faces. It didn't make sense. This was the events of a dream, not the reality in which she lived.

Their sullen expressions weren't the only ones under the oak tree. The Frenchman and Spaniard were unusually quiet that morning in their black suits. The two would never have worn such a dark color, yet the jovial light of their expressions had dimmed to one of solemn, darkened by the events of the week. In the many years he known them, Elizabeta could not remember seeing such an expression on their faces. In fact, she expected one of them—namely Antionio—to burst out into laughter and declare the joke to be had. She was already planning the ways she would make them repent for the aching pain in her chest. But the pair remained silent.

Her gaze shifted as she put a hand on Ludwig's arm. The blond German stood rigid, his face void of emotion. Yet as he turned to her gaze, there was an unexplainable pain in his eyes. He hid his emotions, not because he didn't care—she knew better than that—but because he was trying to be strong. Elizabeta had witnessed this emotionless despair lay claim as she relayed the news to him. Now, much like she, he had partitioned himself from his emotions as a way to cope. They simply could not let the tears run free like Feliciano who stood on Ludwig's other side.

Yet as she let go of him, she felt the stream of tears that had silently fallen. Where did these come from? She quickly wiped away the tears, though in reality it didn't help. She simply did not cry in public. Elizabeta hated to show that kind of weakness in front of others, in front of him. He had taught her to be strong, given her a reason to, and to show that weakness was to throw that lesson away.

A hand touched her shoulder, gently offering reassurance. Looking behind her, Elizabeta saw the deep empathizing concern in Roderich's eyes. Though their relationship had ended long ago, he had been her strongest ally—and possibly closest friend—the one who told her the truth in spite of all the lies. Their eyes locked for a moment. His expression did not change. The pieces slowly began to fit together and she came back into the reality of the present. This was no dream.

Gilbert Beilschmidt was dead.

At first, she had refused to believe it. Emil, an enemy since her childhood, had to have played a cruel trick on her. After all, the hatred that ran between them knew no bounds. At first she had ignored him, thrown him out of her house and continued on with her day. But as the black van pulled up in her drive way, everything shattered. If it had been a joke before, it wasn't any longer.

"_Gloomy Sunday with a hundred white flowers,"_

It was a small ceremony, only his closest friends and relatives in attendance. The awesome Prussia wouldn't want people to know of his death. Underneath the oak they had all gathered, dressed in the color of mourning. The casket had a sense of simplicity to it, surprisingly enough, by the Prussian's request. Elizabeta would have thought that Gilbert, who had flaunted his flamboyant, egotistical personality, would have wanted in death something to symbolize the awesomeness that was his life. But he did not.

Atop of the wooden coffer was a beautiful bouquet of white roses. Fitting, considering many aspects of his life, but no matter how she looked at it, there was something off in the assortment. The longer she stared at them, the longer a crimson paint would taint the purity of the white flower, though as she closed her eyes the roses would return to their natural beauty. A delusion, she quickly assumed, from a lack of sleep. Since they had told her, Elizabeta had not slept more than a few hours collectively. She had spent those sleepless nights remembering.

"_I was waiting for you, my dearest, with a prayer."_

Elizabeta met Gilbert when she was only a child. She remembered how he stood out, his white hair and crimson eyes. He was hard headed, rambunctious, and obnoxious. She remembered telling him that his eyes looked cool, where as he responded 'Of course they are! They're not some normal, wimpy color, like blue or green.' And from there, their rivalry had begun. But somewhere in that childhood rivalry, they became each other's closest friends.

Somewhere along the line, they simply drifted apart. Elizabeta found herself in dresses and chasing boys—namely a particular Austrian boy who Gilbert had told her he despised. Yet as far apart as they grew, they were never truly separated. He had shown up on her wedding day, wishing her happiness with a look on his face she had never seen before. She remembered how perplexed she was, not knowing what laid behind those crimson orbs that morning, and she questioned why she never tried to confirm her suspicions or why he seemed to disappear from her life.

"_A Sunday morning, chasing after my dreams,_

_The carriage of my sorrow returned to me without you."_

But after two horrible defeats, the Hungarian woman found herself a servant of Mother Russia's grand house and under Ivan's terrible rule. As she nursed the deeply inflicted wounds of the Soviet's reign, she found support in the one place she thought not to look. Time had changed them—both the Prussian and herself. She was now a mature young woman and he a young man, but no matter how much time had changed them he was still the young obnoxious boy from her childhood.

Their friendship, both had thought lost to the waves of time, was still just as strong as she remembered. They had become each other's support during their time imprisoned behind an iron curtain. With him, Elizabeta almost forgot the scars the Russian government had first inflicted and the nightmares she continued to have. But if she couldn't, he was always there to comfort her or just to let her cry. With him, she found peace in a time of terror. With him, she had fallen in love.

Time truly was a talented revealer of truth. She came to tell him only to realize that she always had loved him. Elizabeta had thought those many years ago that she had met her one true love in the courts of Austria-Hungary. She had thought that Gilbert was merely the boy who pulled pranks on her and the boy she had beaten at sword fighting; that he was merely a childhood friend.

"_Since then my Sundays have been forever sad;_

_Tears my only drink, the sorrow my bread."_

To love him had seemed such a foreign concept, but now all those years later it seemed to be the only one plausible. She had to know somewhere that Roderich could never understand the real her, not the pretty masquerade she wore at his house, and that Gilbert already had.

She wept as she told him, told him of her offer to leave the Soviet Union. It was insanity to refuse, but they had finally found each other in the red of the soviet estate. He had urged her to go, reminding her of the duty she had to her country and to herself. But she was scared; scared to leave him and never be able to find him again. He had simply smiled at her.

'_I'm too awesome to die.'_

She knew it was a lie.

"_Gloomy Sunday"_

She said she would wait for him.

She was still waiting.

The funeral was quiet, few words were spoken. The pastor who had come to speak his part only brought more tears to her eyes. He spoke of how Gilbert was a strong, good-hearted, if occasionally obnoxious god-fearing man whose fate had simply been written shut at a much earlier date. He knew nothing.

"_This last Sunday my darling please come to me."_

The Gilbert they seemed to know was strong-willed and obnoxious, but they had not seen him break down into tears after days of torment. They had not seen him throw down his precious cross, questioning the will of God or even his existence. This pastor did not know him. His words simply painted a picture to soothe the masses.

The sermon was drawn to a close as a simple last prayer for the departed soul was spoken. A few people walked up to touch the coffin and offered another prayer in silence, others simply came to offer their condolences once again. While Andrei came to gently hold her hand, Emil stood back, staring at Elizabeta with pity and understanding. Francis simply stayed back while Antonio stood at the edge of the casket, a simple prayer for his departed friend being muttered under his breath.

"_There'll be a priest, a coffin, a catafalque and a winding sheet."_

After the general masses had left, Ludwig and Elizabeta made a final journey to wooden frame where Gilbert was laid to rest. The younger brother, who had guarded his mask so ferociously, simply let a few stray tears fall from his eyes as he touched the casket gently, as if the image were to break.

"_Aud weiderseshen, Bruder_," he said quietly, the stray tears leading more to follow. "_Bis später._"

Though Elizabeta knew little German, she understood the emotion that the words carried. Barely holding back her own tears, Elizabeta touched his arm gently to remind him that he was not alone. Ludwig turned to look at her and she saw the pain in his eyes. Gilbert had been his main family, not remembering their parents or grandfather that had raised them. The effect had been devastating.

"_There'll be flowers for you, flowers and a coffin."_

Ludwig slowly looked up, seeing a slightly more comforting sight. Elizabeta turned to find Feliciano and Roderich, the two of them waiting, but giving them their space. The blond sighed. "We should probably go."

"Can I have a few moments?" she asked quietly, her emerald eyes glued to the wooden casket.

A sad smile spread on his face. If anyone understood, she did. After she returned from the Soviet Union, Elizabeta had come to tell Ludwig the news of his brother. From her words, he understood everything.

"Of course."

They stood there for a moment, their simple presence bringing some form of comfort that they both desperately needed. She looked at him, her guarded expression falling fast. He began to walk slowly, giving her the time and space. But as he barely passed her, she stopped him.

She looked at him. "I loved your brother," she said, apparently more for herself than for him. "I didn't know it, but I always loved him."

Ludwig sighed. They had this conversation before and he knew the words she needed. But now, he could never say that she would hear it from the person who deserved to say it. "He loved you too. I know he did."

She wanted to smile. She wanted to be comforted by the words he said, but she found no solace. Instead the pain and suffering she had locked away began to resurface.

"I waited," she said quietly, tears forming in her eyes. It was almost inaudible, but he had caught it. The despair those two simple words held…

He placed a hand on her arm, just as gently as she had done before, though he knew it held no comfort for her. "I know."

Elizabeta watched as Ludwig convinced Feliciano and Roderich to leave her be for a few minutes. Reluctantly they turned to walk down the hill towards the black car that sat at its base.

She had shed all of her tears and now stared blankly at the casket, running a hand over its simple finish. A sweet song played gently through her thoughts. The song she had heard just the night before. Elizabeta smiled sadly as she looked at the white roses on the casket. The roses colored with crimson.

Humming its haunting melody she reached into her coat, her fingers tracing over the silver barrel…

"_Under the blossoming trees will be my last journey."_

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"Are you sure she needs to be alone?" Feliciano asked worriedly. He and Roderich looked at each other, completely unconvinced.

Ludwig nodded. "She just wants to say goodbye," he assured the young Italian. While that seemed to appease him, the Austrian was not convinced. And in truth, neither was he.

As they walked down the hill, the two of them stayed a few paces behind the young Feliciano. Roderich looked back occasionally to watch his ex-wife's expressions. She was motionless next to the casket, her eyes locked on it, though he doubted she was actually looking at it. He had been happy to learn, that while she had not truly loved him that she had found true love. It pained him to watch that happiness be ripped from her grasp, leaving her a shell of who she was.

"She said she waited."

The german's voice brought him out of his own despairing trance. Roderich sighed as the words registered in his head. "She really loved him. It's such a shame that he didn't return to meet her."

"_My eyes will be open so I can see you a last time._

_Don't be afraid of my eyes. I'm blessing you in my death"_

Ludwig stopped suddenly, causing Roderich to turn around and look at him with a questioning gaze; however Ludwig's expression was unreadable. Even Feliciano turned around to note the oddity in his behavior.

"I'm… not sure he didn't."

Roderich looked at him incredulously. That just wasn't right. Of course he didn't. Gilbert had died under the reign of the Soviet. Elizabeta had spent years waiting for him to return and he hadn't. What could he possibly mean that Gilbert had returned to her? He hadn't returned to her to tell her he loved her, not to thank her for everything she had done. How could he have actually returned to her?

A shot rung through the air.

"_The last Sunday"_

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_A/N:_ So, there we go. If anyone is familiar with Gloomy Sunday and the urban legend that it also holds, this story makes more sense. I think the song is absolutely beautiful and the lyrics are just so. I'm told most of the emotions in the words are lost when translated, but I prefer the László Jávor (translated and Hungarian) version of the lyrics. As to the historical context (the Cold War), it more or less follows what was going to be the continuation of my 1952 oneshot, though this is the alternate ending.

_Prussia_: So I don't die in the real ending?

_TehDono_: No, I couldn't kill you. I have to have you return to Elizabeta's arms.

_Prussia_: You're a hopeless romantic.

_TehDono_: You're just crippled and barely alive by the end of it.

_Prussia_: O_O You're evil, evil woman.

_TehDono_: The term is realistic. So there it is. Reviews appreciated! ;)


End file.
